One Final Kiss
by slwmtiondaylite1
Summary: Spock/Uhura. His life had been unequivocally altered that night. His life with her, shattered. He would have it again. A twisted, distorted mockery of that life. But he would have it with her again.


**ONE FINAL KISS**  
by SlwMtionDaylite

**written for the LJ comm Spock_Uhura 's 2010 Halloween Contest**

**Disclaimer:** Unfortunately, I own nothing. Paramount, et al. own all. I really wish they would let me borrow Spock for a while though.  
**Rating:** M  
**Genre:** Horror, Fantasy  
**Characters/Pairing:** Spock/Uhura  
**Warnings:** Sexual situations, bloodplay

**Summary:** Spock/Uhura. _His life had been unequivocally altered that night. His life with her, shattered. He would have it again. A twisted, distorted mockery of that life. But he would have it with her again._

**Word Count:** 4200

**Author's Notes: **I had to pull out all my knowledge of the Grand-Guignol horror for this one and I'm sure Oscar Metenier and Andre de Lorde are rolling in their graves due to my butchering of the Grand Guignol aesthetic. As is Maurice Level, I'm sure, for my butchering and dismembering of his play, "The Final Kiss," from 1912, from which I was somewhat inspired (though it had no vampires).

It has also been a very long time since I've delved into the world of vampires, with them having been so tarnished and ruined by _Twilight _(sorry, _Twilight _fans...okay, not really) that I couldn't enjoy them as much as I used to, so I may be a bit rusty.

* * *

It wasn't often that Nyota Uhura allowed herself to indulge. It wasn't often that she allowed herself a night's reprieve from her studies at the Academy to attend something extracurricular, something that some might even consider illogical. She forced herself to not go down that line of thought. She didn't come here for him. She came here for her love of art. Of Vulcan art. When she had learned that the museum was planning an exhibition featuring rare and priceless works dated back to the Pre-Awakening age, she jumped on the opportunity to get tickets for the opening night.

She certainly didn't come here in the hopes that he'd be here. That would have been illogical.

She hadn't seen him—Spock—in nearly six months. Not since that night. That horrible forgettable—though she'd never be able to forget—night. She had thought he was incapable of doing such a thing, that his Vulcan propriety would never allow that. That _he_ would never allow himself to do that.

She'd been wrong.

She shook her head, ruefully. She shouldn't allow herself to go down that path. It was best to let it remain in the past. And yet, she continually subjected herself to things that constantly reminded her of him. She looked up at the large canvas painting—a painting that was centuries old, millennia even—and was in awe. It was the most passionate image she'd seen. Dramatic angles, deep reds and oranges. It was certainly beautiful. It reminded her of him.

She ran a hand down the side of her steel gray knee-length dress, smoothing out the wrinkles. Her eyes were still drawn to that image, that powerful image. Laughter across the large gallery sounded. She jerked her head in that direction, her long teardrop earrings swinging. She sighed, the mood lost.

She walked the room slowly, observing the pieces. Looking at this art, it was undeniable, the internal passion, the dampened emotions of the Vulcan race. Spock had certainly been passionate. Her eyes dropped once more, and she reached a hand up, playing with an errant tendril of her dark hair. She thought about him again. She didn't want to. She didn't want to admit that she missed him, loved him still. Despite what he'd done. But she did. Did it make her weak somehow? That she couldn't move on from him, despite his actions?

She looked around the gallery and spotted a man—a server dressed in a lovely white tuxedo—delicately carrying a tray filled with champagne. He approached her and she smiled.

He held the tray to her and asked if she was interested in a drink.

She smiled, grateful, taking the flute of champagne from the server's outstretched hand. He nodded and proceeded on his way, stopping at the next patrons. Bringing it to her lips, Nyota took a ginger sip.

She hadn't been able to discuss it with him afterwards—she didn't let him talk to her—because she had run. And then he'd disappeared.

She wondered where he was now. Did he return to Vulcan? Did he request reassignment to a ship? All she knew was that he was no longer teaching any of his classes—a friendly Andorian male had taken over—but she didn't know where he went.

She scanned the gallery, looking at the magnificent architecture of the museum. It was a throwback to the ancient Greco-Roman style. Large fluted and elaborate Corinthian-capped columns formed a larger colonnade along the interior perimeter. Precisely thirteen columns per side. Between each column, large tapestries intricately woven in rich Vulcan fabrics hung, stretching nearly from the ceiling to the floor.

Her eyes moved from the tapestries to the crowd. There were many people from Starfleet in attendance. Many Vulcans. That wasn't really surprising to her, as no doubt, the museum's curators worked closely with those from Vulcan to ensure that the exhibit was accurate and respectful.

She looked from the tapestries to the people, dancing around delicate and priceless pieces of art. Many were admiring the works, others were engaged in boisterous conversation and no doubt were there simply for appearance's sake.

She caught sight of a figure dressed completely in black, standing near a tapestry. His stance was painfully familiar, erect, hands behind his back. His pale skin seemed so much starker against the black of his robes.

Spock.

His eyes landed on her and her mouth opened, a small gasp spilling from her lips. He gave her a nearly imperceptible nod and turned around, stepping behind the tapestry into the darkness of the colonnade.

Nyota glanced around quickly, holding her champagne glass out. She walked to a small table and placed the glass there. She moved to his hiding place, her heart pounding.

Pulling aside a long draping tapestry, she stepped into the shadows. "Spock?" It'd been so long since she'd seen him. She took a deep calming breath, her eyes darting to the ground. Looking up again, she couldn't see him, couldn't find him. She tried to fight her disappointment. She shouldn't even _want_ to see him.

She sighed and cringed when she felt tears sting her eyes. She shook her head and moved forward, deciding to leave.

He stepped behind her, his hands clasped behind his back. "Good evening, Nyota." His voice washed over her, his smooth sultry tones calming.

Nyota gasped, startled, and reached up to her loose tendrils, playing with her hair. Her eyes darted around the shadows. "How are you?"

He tilted his head, his eyes looking upwards toward the right. "I am...functioning acceptably."

She nodded her head jerkily, glancing at him from the side of her eyes. He looked different from when she last saw him. Granted, that night, he'd been so out of control, so...monstrous. But now, he seemed so pale in the shadows. He seemed... She winced, looking at the floor. She didn't know, exactly.

Clearing her throat, she spoke once again. "How do you, uh, how are you liking this exhibit?"

"It is...satisfactory." He did not elaborate.

She didn't really expect anything more from him and struggled to find something to talk about once more, even though she should be leaving and not looking back.

The silence drew on and she felt awkward, standing next to him for the first time in nearly six months. She looked at her dress, picking at the collar, trying to rid the dress of lint that wasn't even there. She just needed something to do while she waited to see what happened next. Her eyes darted to his face. He was definitely paler than last she saw him, his skin had taken on a slight rusty tinge. He looked sick.

Her concern grew, and she was able to push aside her own pain of seeing him once more. "Where have you been? I haven't seen you since–"

He interrupted her, his voice hard. "–Since the night you left me?"

She gasped and tears burned in the backs of her eyes. How dare he? How dare he place the blame on her? "Left you? You were the one who was –" She couldn't finish. She remembered in vivid detail what she saw. What she had never expected to see. She knew _Pon Farr _could be dangerous—he had told her that much, warned her of that—but the amount of blood? And so much of it? The sight of him writhing underneath another woman, a woman who had glanced at her, smiling, teeth showing between bloodied—emerald green dripping down her chin—lips. A woman who clearly enjoyed seeing her face fall, her tears stream down her face as her life shattered around her. She had left quickly. She didn't stop for anything, even when she heard him calling for her.

His voice, previously so harsh, dropped to a whisper. "Seeking..._pleading_ for your help? And you were the one who left." He took a deep breath. His eyes remained ahead, watching the patrons beyond the tapestries. He shrugged slightly—Nyota's eyes widened at such an uncharacteristic nonchalance—and he spoke once more, his voice stronger. "But it is of no matter. No longer. To answer your previous query, I have resigned from Starfleet."

She gasped. She had not expected that. "Resigned? Why?" Starfleet was his life. Why did he suddenly decide to abandon it?

Finally, Spock turned to face her and she felt nervous under his penetrating gaze. "I had determined that perhaps my life would be better served elsewhere. Starfleet, I decided, no longer...coincided with my interests."

She cleared her throat, dropping her gaze from his powerful one. "You didn't resign because of me, did you?"

He turned away. "It would be wise not to apply so much credit to yourself, Nyota."

She flushed in embarrassment, crossing her arms against her chest. She turned from him slightly.

"You were not my sole reason for resigning."

She didn't know what else to say to him, didn't know what would be appropriate to ask. He seemed content to remain silent, standing close to her. She just felt awkward and pained.

A man walked by, his arm around a woman's waist, brushing across the tapestry. It shifted, letting the light seep into their corner.

Spock hissed and retreated further into the darkness, leaning heavily against the wall behind him.

Her curiosity, her concern got the best of her. "Uh...why are you hiding in the shadows?"

He brought his hand up, shielding his eyes. "The light." He peered between his fingers, watching the swaying drapery finally settle. He slowly lowered his hand. "I find that lately, it burns my eyes."

She approached him slowly, holding her hand out. She shouldn't even be standing here with him, not after what he'd done. But he was acting so bizarre, so unnerving. "Are you sure you're okay, Spock?"

He reached out and grabbed her outstretched hand, pulling her roughly towards him.

She gasped, her free hand seizing his wrist—it felt like ice—and her heart pounded loudly in her chest. "Spock!"

He pushed her against the wall, spinning around to stand in front of her and placing his hands securely on her waist. He leaned in close to her, his eyes closing. "I loved you."

She gasped, tears in her eyes. Despite their relationship—clandestine as it was, as it had to be—she had never heard him actually say the words, words she had told herself countless times she didn't need to hear, not when she could _feel_ them through their melds. It was a sort of cruel irony that he would reserve those three words for a time when they were no longer together. "Spock, please."

"I still do." He fell silent, breathing deeply. "It was...catastrophic. That night. However, it is illogical to dwell upon the past. Nothing can right it now. It was a terrible thing to do—as I'm sure you are aware."

She nodded, her eyes closing.

"But I forgive you."

Her eyes opened with a snap and her tears retreated. "Forgive me?"

He stepped closer, ignoring her question, and reached a hand out, caressing her face. "You did...you loved me, as well, did you not?"

Tears filled her eyes and her vision blurred. She leaned into his touch, feeling a calm wash over her. "Yes. Of course, I did. We were going to be bond mates."

He leaned into her, pressing her into the wall. She reached out and placed her hands on his chest.

"Yes. Yes, we were." He brushed an unruly tendril of hair away from her face. "I have missed you. Greatly."

Her eyes closed. She felt languid, tired suddenly. She couldn't explain it. She leaned heavily against the wall. "I've missed you, too."

His lips skimmed across her cheek and he breathed into her ear. "This is to be the final time we are together."

She shivered against the surprising coolness of his breath. "Why?"

He brushed his lips against her forehead. "Because..." He offered nothing further, leaning into her. He kissed her.

She gasped against his lips and he slipped his tongue in to mingle with hers. She felt an overwhelming passion for him—and his for her—and arched her back, pressing her body firmly against his. She shouldn't be feeling this way, not after his betrayal. Not after everything. She was surprised at his actions—his very public actions—in this museum, since Vulcans were notoriously private. He had never dared hold her hand in public, much less kiss her as he was doing now. But beneath her confusion, her surprise, she felt that passion for him—that passion she couldn't fight—push its way forward, taking hold of her. She succumbed to his touch, to his lips. "Spock." She sighed against his lips.

He pulled away, resting his forehead against hers. "I am so cold. Frozen. Will you let me caress your skin?" His hands skimmed down her body, down her thighs, until he grasped the hem of her skirt. He pushed it upwards, "I feel that I have never touched anyone before...I feel lost, Nyota. Like a child." He slipped a hand between her legs, and pushing her underwear aside, pressed against her sweet center.

Her eyes closed and Nyota's head fell against the wall behind her with a quiet thud. "Oh, God. Oh, God."

"I am most pleased to see you once more." He slipped a finger inside her, pressing.

She moaned loudly, waiting for someone to find them, to see them. "Me, too."

He claimed her lips with his in an icy searing kiss. "It would please me greatly for you to stay with me...but I know it is impossible."

"I'll do whatever you want, Spock. I'm yours." She shuddered against him, arching into his hand.

Spock's other hand skimmed across the satiny material of her dress, moving to cup her breasts. "I remember this dress. You wore it our first night together."

She gasped, moving against him. She was blinded by her lust, her arousal. "Yes."

He suddenly ceased his movements. "Do not move."

She whimpered.

He leaned in and breathed, inhaling deeply. "I find your perfume most appealing."

She fought to open her heavy eyelids, looking at him. "I'm not wearing any."

He inhaled once more, breathing in her scent. "It is the scent of your body, your skin, your hair." He paused and rubbed his thumb across her clit, spreading her wetness. "Your arousal."

She shuddered, gasping. Her hands grasped his shoulders tightly and she fought desperately not to move against his expert hand.

"Are you scared?" he whispered into her ear.

She shook her head. Despite everything, she could never be afraid of him. "No."

"You are trembling. Do I unnerve you?"

"No. I'm cold." His touch was so icy, so unlike the previously scorching heat.

"We must warm you." He pulled his hand away from her, eliciting a weak whimper. He smoothed her skirt across her thighs. "Come with me." He stepped away.

Her euphoric haze was fading with his retreat. She glanced around the museum, expecting to see people looking at them. They were still alone in their dark corner, but she still felt her cheeks flush and dropped her eyes. This wasn't him. Her Spock would never have indulged in what they had just done in such a public place, no matter how tucked away. And even if he was, she shouldn't have. Not afterwards. She couldn't look at him. She shook her head, her eyes fixated on the floor. "I can't. I...need to go."

He reached for her hand, rubbing his thumb across the back of her hand. "I have felt so calm since I found you. Do you love me?"

She nodded and answered breathily, unable to stop herself from speaking. "Yes."

"Then come with me."

She shook her head. "I shouldn't. Next time."

Spock stepped close to her, cupping her face and bringing her lips to his in a gentle kiss. "No. There will never be a next time. This will be the last time. Please."

She whimpered, tears threatening to fall. He was right. This would be the last time. There couldn't be any more, not after...She still couldn't bring herself to say it, to think it. There shouldn't even be this one time. "Okay. Okay."

* * *

The door slid open to his apartment—she knew this place intimately, having spent so much time here, but she didn't think he still lived her as he hadn't answered her knocks—and he pulled her inside, immediately forcing her against the wall. He drew her into a kiss and pulled her skirt up, over her hips. He pushed her underwear aside and returned to his previous ministrations that he had begun at the museum.

She moaned and bucked against his hand. Her hands cupped his face, pulling him in closer.

He broke the kiss, pulling away and trailing his mouth across her jaw and down her neck. He paused and licked, spreading open-mouthed kisses on her jugular, suckling.

She moaned, throwing her head back and clinging to his shoulders.

His hands withdrew from her heat and pushed the dress upwards, grazing her soft sugary-brown skin and eliciting soft sighs. He pulled away briefly to pull the dress over her head, exposing her body, dressed in only her damp panties. Spock threw her dress somewhere behind him, not stopping to see where it landed, not stopping to ensure that it was folded neatly and placed somewhere safe. He leaned into her and trailed his kisses down the valley between her breasts. Nyota's hands tangled themselves in his hair. And he suckled her breasts, twirling his tongue on her nipples, teasing them.

She cried out and brought a leg up, pulling his hips closer to hers, and she rubbed herself against his leg, trying to find some relief to the ache. Her hands left his hair, dropping to the front sash of his robes, working fervently to undo the sash. She parted them and pushed them to the floor, where they fell in a puddle at his feet, revealing his chest. She ran her hands down his chest, wherever she could reach, caressing him.

Nyota felt a sharp nick on her breast and she gasped, jerking away from his touch. "Spock!"

He looked at her through hooded eyes. "I apologize, Nyota. I am finding myself overcome."

She nodded, accepting his apology. "It's okay. Just startled me." She pulled him into a deep kiss, tasting her blood in his lips. She gasped into his mouth. She was surprised at his actions; he'd never behaved this way before.

Slowly, Spock pulled away and dropped to his knees in front of her. He trailed kisses down her abdomen, stopping just above the waistband of her panties. He grasped her underwear and pulled them down, revealing her fully to him.

She looked down at him with half-hooded eyes, breathing heavily.

He leaned forward, bringing her leg to his shoulder, and latched onto her clit, suckling, bringing his hands up to her hips to still her movements.

She moaned loudly, bringing her hands to his hair, clinging to him, pulling him closer. She arched her back, pressing her shoulders into the wall behind her, and grew stiff, her orgasm fast approaching.

He doubled his efforts, pleasuring her in the way only he'd ever been able. She'd missed his touch. His mouth. His tongue.

Suddenly, she came with a scream, bucking against his face. He rode out her orgasm with her, lapping at her.

When she sagged against the wall, breathing harshly, he gently removed her leg from his shoulder and stood, his hands the only things keeping her from falling into a boneless heap before him. He kissed her sweetly, his hands cupping her face, and she tasted herself on his lips.

He ran his hands down her sides and grasped the backs of her thighs. She instinctively jumped and wrapped her legs around his waist, grinding herself against his clothed bulge.

He carried her to his bedroom, setting her upon the bed.

She watched him through half-closed eyes, leaning back on her elbows. He quickly finished undressing, shirking his pants, his boots and kicking them aside.

His lips quirked upward slightly and he crawled on the bed, slinking like a panther, hovering over her. He kissed her, lovingly, placing his hands on her hips. Her hands came to a rest on his shoulders. He rolled over suddenly, bringing her above him and eliciting a gasp from her lips, and let her sit atop him.

She straddled him, smiling languidly, and took his length in her hand. She stroked him a few times then rose above him, kneeling. She positioned herself and sunk down, taking him in. She moaned loudly and ran her hands through her hair, pulling it loose from its confines. She moved her hips slowly, grinding against him, searching for a rhythm.

Spock grasped her hips, moving her up and down, helping her.

She gasped, her breathing coming harshly, and leaned forward, her breasts skirting across his chest. She brought her hands to the sides of his head. Her hair hung down, like a delicate silky curtain and she kissed him.

Spock's left hand left her hip to cup the back of her neck, pulling her closer. Beneath her, he increased their rhythm.

She moaned into his mouth, feeling her second orgasm approaching.

He bucked his hips—she cried out—and flipped their positions, pushing her into the mattress and thrusting quickly, wildly.

She clung to him desperately, her breath escaping in harsh gasps. She closed her eyes tightly.

He thrust into her roughly, clinging to her hips. There were certain to be bruises marring her flesh, but she didn't care, too caught in the bliss.

His right hand skirted across her body, moving upwards.

She arched her back, her body tensing. She was so close. Just a little bit more.

He grabbed her throat, tightening his grip.

She gasped, grabbing his arm. "Spock?" She moaned, his thrust hitting her in just the right place.

Spock leaned over her, resting his forehead against hers. "We shall be perfect lovers. We will be made for one another."

She whimpered, thrashing against him. She was scared. She was aroused. She was so close.

Spock released her throat and grabbed her hair, forcing her head back and exposing her long neck. He moved down, brushing his lips, his tongue against her throat, along her veins.

She shuddered. "Spock!"

He kissed her again. "You shall be like me."

Her orgasm hit her hard. She gasped, pressing her head further into her pillow. She tightened her grip on his shoulders, quivering around him. "Spock!"

He moaned, ceasing his thrusts, and pressed his lips against her neck. He bit her, sliding in two sharp, perfectly-formed canines.

The sudden pain on her throat surprised her and she pushed him away.

He leaned away from her, blood dripping from his lips, which were peeled back in a snarl.

Her eyes widened and she opened her mouth to scream.

He slapped a hand across her mouth, silencing her before she could, and leaned down once more, quickly biting into the flesh of her neck.

She screamed into his cold hand, another orgasm tearing through her body, pain seizing her.

He drank greedily, spilling his seed into her.

* * *

He stood at the foot of the bed, looking at her prostrate body upon the askew mattress. Her tangled curls were spread like a halo across the pillow; her eyes closed. Blood seeped from her neck, staining the sheets red. She was beautiful. She was stunning.

She was his.

Her limbs peeped out of the tangled sheets and he shuddered, remembering how she clung to him, how she cried out, screamed.

He growled in remembrance. In remembrance of how she had left him six months, two days and thirteen hours ago in the hands of that woman...that creature. He did not know what she was; he did not know what _he_ was.

His life had been unequivocally altered that night. His life with her, shattered.

He would have it again.

A twisted, distorted mockery of that life. But he would have it with her again.

Spock walked around the bed, towards the head. Leaning over, he admired her features. He bent down and brought his hand around the back of her neck, lifting her head slightly. He kissed her lips, heedless of the blood on his own.

She did not respond to his kiss, nor did he expect her to. That would have been illogical.

Standing erect, he looked at her once more, committing the sight of her to his eidetic memory. He would be able to remember this moment at any time he so desired.

He turned and left the room silently, stepping into the street, uncaring of the blood staining his lips, dripping down his chin. He ran his tongue across his sharp canines.

It wasn't time yet.


End file.
